


The Need to Communicate

by CuriousNymph



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: 90's Music, Affectionate, All Time Favorites, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Bad Decisions, Based on a Tumblr Post, But good ones too, Check out Spotify, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Derry, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff and Humor, For sure folks, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Girl Gang, I'll weave it in where I can, Idiots in Love, Irish humour, James and Erin's ship name is fab btw, Jerin - Freeform, Love Confessions, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Nerdiness, Non-Canon Relationship, Northern Ireland, Northern Irish Troubles, Platonic Relationships, Playlist, Post-Episode: s02e06 The President, Romantic Friendship, Secret Crush, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenage Dorks, Teenage Drama, Teenage Rebellion, Teenagers, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Who knows where this came from, YOU KNOW IT, at least not yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-12 09:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18443585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousNymph/pseuds/CuriousNymph
Summary: Erin knows for a fact that there are certain things a Derry Girl just doesn’t do.Stay in the area when an orange march is happening. Tell your ma where you're going on St Patrick's.But most importantly, under no circumstances, catch yourself fancying some fella from outside Ireland.It's a pity that she's already flunked that rule, isn't it?





	1. The Pack Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!! 
> 
> The hiatus on a lot of my fics has made me physically stiff with anxiety, cause I know so many people out there desperately want other installments. The ideas are making joyful progress in my head, folks, but getting it on paper is another feat in itself. 
> 
> However, the recent series 2 finale of Derry Girls just passed and I'm currently having serious withdrawal from the antics of these five losers. And that ending did not help, I tell you. 
> 
> Swear to God, tumblr - you just had to get me hooked on another ship, didn't you? 
> 
> Yes, Jerin officially owns my heart for the moment. 
> 
> As an *SPOILER ALERT* authentic Northern Irish gal, writing this felt a little weird. You'd think Northern Irish banter would come naturally to someone who has known nothing but that exact thing, but the answer is apparently not. Northern Irish dialect looks like badly attempted Scottish when written down. The exact reason behind that remains a mystery. However, anyone looking to have some top tips on "how to speak Norn Iron, like", are completely at their ease to ask away! I understand Jerin has become a trending tag on the Internet. So, you know - hit me up. It's going to be a long time before we get any ACTUAL content.
> 
> Not entirely sure how long I plan for this to be. Probably just long enough to rewatch Derry Girls in its entirety at least three more times. 
> 
> As always, kudos, reviews and any general loveliness are welcomed beyond measure! 
> 
> Can't wait to write more for these girls.
> 
> P.S. SHITE ALMOST FORGOT 
> 
> Have a playlist for this (oh you bet I do): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6A4PgzQrHphyqMswN3crKc

Erin would like to tell herself that she’s actually _fine_.

Unfortunate truth is that she’s not even in the ballpark with regards to _fine_ , but if she’s about to admit that, it’ll be if – and _only_ if – the police come knocking at her door.

And, of course, providing that they don’t encounter her Ma before that.

(God knows Ma Mary would send them running down the street before they’d get to ask anything. Wooden spoon and all).

No, Erin’s definitely not fine.                                          

It’s at the kitchen table that she thinks she _properly_ realizes this– the top sprayed with fresh toast crumbs and dangerous jam stains from uncleaned knives, the five of them having plonked themselves down for a spot of second breakfast, or brunch – whatever the hell you call it.

James sits pride of place in the middle of them, a near-shit-eating grin on his face that Erin almost chalks up to the slew of positive attention he’s currently receiving.

“You nearly gave us a fucking heart attack, you eejit!” Michelle snorts, slapping James’ back as she crunches down on what Erin can only assume is her fifth piece of toast. Michelle is not known for a weak stomach. Regarding anything, actually.

James just smiles again – a grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes, lip almost wobbling at the warmth he’s currently being smothered in. It’s like having a mother, but better.

Better than any mother he’s ever known.

“Why were ye even gonna consider it, anyway? Sure, we all know Cathy wasn’t gonnae actually get you to help her make stickers-“

“They actually _were_ self-adhesive labels, Michelle,” James smirks despite his defense, shedding his fleece lined jacket in one shrug of his shoulders. Cold and all as it might be in Derry, it’s boiling in the house.

“Aye, stickers – that’s what I said,”

James just shakes his head in disbelief.

Why did her ever think he had a chance of leaving these four?

Erin watches from across the table, slathering jam across her third slice of toast, stretching as far as she can over to the worktop to reach the radio, turning up the dial a little. Christmas music is currently invading the channel, and they’re hardly even into December.

Erin would complain, but she’s got so much to look forward to with Christmas. Always her favourite season.

(Mostly because she doesn’t have to go to school, but you know - presents, too). 

Erin catches James’ gaze as he smiles over at her, eyes darting between the four of them with some kind of unreadable expression on his face. Probably still in disbelief _himself_ over what just happened. He still has the dodgy American flag draped around one of his shoulders, the other end caught in the collar of his jacket now draped, inside-out, over his chair. It’s still a little raw for her – the sinking, wrenching emptiness hauling her stomach through her arse as she’d tried to grasp the idea of him leaving; the cheering crowds a carefully planned distraction to hide her guilt over how she’d treated him so casually before. Like she really _wouldn’t_ have cared if he’d left.

She realizes now that it might actually have been a waking nightmare, shattered before it could proceed.

She doesn't want to think about having to maybe have sat here tonight without James beside her, or near her, or even within sight. He's become such a casual expectation for her - tall and gangly and softly spoken, often pushed into small spaces by the four of them, all vying for the loudest voice. 

She'd gotten so used to him being there, she hadn't ever thought about how impossible life before him seemed. 

A Derry Girl, indeed. 

The Quinn household is small, multi-coloured fairy lights glowing pink and blue and orange in the early morning glow, the noise in the town still prevalent despite the distance. Any minute and her Ma and Da will be back – no doubt to heckle them about where they wandered off to.

Erin kind of just wants to sit here – the weird, tingly, overly clichéd part of her, that often only gets a voice in her diary, is enjoying this too much.

Seated around a table with her friends, each of them keeping James in their view, frightened he might vanish from their sight if they don’t appreciate him.

Erin thinks it wouldn’t be entirely untruthful.

All it took was for him to leave (for five bloody seconds and all) for them to realize they couldn’t be the same wee group without him.

For her to realize she liked him.

_A lot._

_Maybe too fucking much than’s normal._

Maybe a _wee_ bit more than she’d originally planned, even.

See, the thing with James is - he's not like other boys. Precisely because he _isn't_ a lad. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the Protestant boys, too caved in and gentle for their often rough shake-abouts. James was just - something else. Genuine; soft. Occasionally sweet when he really wanted to be. 

Erin's mind flashes back to him at her door, striped scarf draped around his shoulders. They'd looked broader in the suit than she thought she'd be interested enough to care about, all swept back hair and coy smile. Maybe just imitating her romantic daydreams a little _too_ much. And she'd been wearing that awful dress and her mascara had stained her eyes a jet black and he'd smiled and sighed and she'd just -

She hadn't been able to take it. 

Erin snaps back to the scene at hand, watching him lean into the conversation with a sincerity that is never lost on any of them, no matter how they mess him about. 

He’s _James_. 

Michelle is now to work, currently scrubbing at his curls with her knuckles, her smile tugging on being almost teary, trying to cover up her relief with vengeance. James just laughs, Orla still clasping his hand as she nibbles away the crust of her rather floppy looking slice of toast.

 _Shite_ , Erin thinks to herself, chest feeling tight as she sits back in her chair a little, fingers going a little nervy in her lap; she grimaces at the scene in front of her, chest restricting a little more. She feels like crying, but only because there's too much to contain anymore.

James' smile softens a little as his gaze turns to rest on her, hair now a mess from Michelle’s affectionately violent head scrubs.  She pulls an expression equal to a thumbs up in his direction, trying to keep her nervy hands under control. She schools her face into one of indifference. 

His weepy smile doesn't affect the sparkle in his eyes, from tears and relief and overflowing joy at feeling at peace with the ground beneath his feet. 

Ugh. 

Katya _really_ wasn’t fucking about.

James is actually _gorgeous_.

 

+            +            +

 

The realization hits her a lot harder than she’d like – almost the equivalent of, like, a road bombing, but she’s not gonna _say_ that cause there’d be too many expressions worthy of the wooden spoon on Ma Mary’s face to even _begin_ counting.

So she keeps that observation to herself, and instead busies the others into a frantic hustle over Christmas, each debating how best to get away from the dreary family visits (Jesus, Uncle Colm becomes unbearable when he starts on the mince pies) and hang out with each other instead.

“Christ, Erin – if you think me ma is even going to consider letting me go upstairs, nevermind outside- ” Michelle starts, but Erin glares at her.

“Well you’re just gonnae have to figure it out, aren’t you? You’ve another thing coming if you think I’m wasting my time on Uncle Colm’s stories about the IRA men one more time -”

Clare looks over at her with an iconic, confused expression on her face, but Erin chooses to ignore it. Clare’s default expression is confused and slightly scorned. Or panicky.

“The IRA men?”

“The radiator thing, Clare,”

“The radiator thing?”

Erin sighs far more dramatically than is entirely warranted, catching Orla spilling cereal over her bedspread as she watches the conversation like live stage theatre. Erin’s often of the opinion that Orla wafts through _life_ like its theatre – as in, she can just up and leave when the notion takes her.

Erin almost doesn’t have the heart to tell her she wishes it really _was_ like that.

“Unless you’ve forgotten that Fionnuala banned us from the chippy?”

Clare mouths an ‘oh’ of realization.

Erin falls backwards onto her bedspread, French braid fanning downwards, feeling like she’s been thrown from her window and then asked to scale the wall to get back up.

“What’re you’s all asking for, anyway?” Clare pipes up, but Michelle’s groan of frustration is enough to make Erin shoot back up from her bed.

“Are you not asking for anything?” Erin’s nose scrunches up in confusion.

Michelle glances up from her nails, hoop earrings swinging amongst her black curly hair. Despite Michelle being Erin’s labelled ‘mouth’ of the group, she has to admire the dedication she puts into her appearance, even when it’s just them and the majority don’t care.

“As if, Erin.”

“As if what? Not even a CD or something?”

Michelle raises her eyebrows in damning formation.

“Aye, dead on, Erin – cause my ma would just buy me a CD, for Christ sakes. Get a grip,”

“It’s not exactly a huge ask, Michelle,”

“Concerning my ma, Erin, just about anything is a big ask – including living in this godforsaken hole,”

“That’s not entirely true, Michelle,” Clare pitches in, finger pointing in her friend’s general direction.

“What isn’t? The state of this place? Wise up, Clare,”

“It’s not a hole!”

Another raised eyebrow from Michelle, accompanied by everyone else.

“Ireland–”

“Northern Ireland.”

“ _Ireland_ ,” Clare insists.

“If you’re stupid enough to pretend people are magically grand after one mention of a ceasefire,”

“The ceasefire was an important event, Michelle-!”

“Aye, but not important enough to make me start _magically_ wanting to ride Prods,”

“Why’d you always have to make it about –“

“Riding people?”

“Yes!”

“Because everything else is a fucking waste of time, Clare. D’ye even live here or what?”

“I really want to live in Africa,” Orla chips in. Erin’s head whips around at the comment, currently now cross-legged on her cereal splattered bedspread. She feels about ready to boke at the sight of potentially spilt milk.

“Jesus, you're not back with this Africa thing, are you?" Erin's exasperation keeps pushing to reach new heights, apparently. 

Orla scoffs. 

"It's on the map," 

" _How_ is that a reason?" 

Orla shrugs. 

Erin just scrunches up her face again, earning a diverted gaze from James. 

"I’d really like you to think before you open your mouth,” she quips, glaring at the growing mess on her duvet cover.

“They get more sun than us,”

“Because that’s really the most important thing, now that I’m thinking about it,” Erin dabs her finger on her bedspread.

Yep. Definitely spillages.

“Oh for God’s sake, Orla! Did ye have to eat your stupid cereal on me bed!”

“The table was full!”

“ _The table was full_ ,” Erin mimics, face contorting into one of her iconic rubber expressions that makes her look almost caricature.

“Why’re you even eating cereal at this time?” Clare asks, head lifting up from her current novel.

"Cereal's lovely," 

"You say that about everything, Orla," James and Clare both quip, briefly swapping a quiet smile at their shared thought.

Erin looks to her friend, face now dawning with slight horror as a deep regret sinks into her stomach.

“Why? What time is it?”

A brief glance at her watch tells Erin almost immediately that it can’t be good.

“Almost seven.”

Shite.

“ _Shit!_ ” Erin shouts, almost leaping off her bed.

“What? What is it?” James starts, making Erin turn around and catch him looking at her, a slightly dazzled look in his eyes. The lot of them had been sitting in her room for a least two hours since their subsequent brunch, and he’s gained a disheveled look to his appearance.

Not in like, a sexy way. It was James. There were limits.

Well.

Maybe.

She ignores how comfortable he looks sitting here, before taking a quick minute to consider that he’d had no second thoughts about _being_ in her room. 

Testament to the level of dodgy-ness currently residing in the _James-is-actually-decent-looking_ department.

Why’d she have to make it so fucking weird anyway? Sweet Jesus, she needs help.

“I haven’t even washed me bloody hair yet! And now Aunt Sarah’s going to hog that bathroom until tomorrow morning!”

“Give over, Erin! All you ever do is plait your hair, I don’t see what the big deal’s about,”

Erin whirls round on her friend, a horrific snarl on the end of her tongue.

“As if you’d know, Michelle! Blonde hair looks greasier than darker hair!”

“Your hair always looks greasy, I don’t see the difference.”

“Why _do_ you always plait your hair, Erin? D'you not like any other styles?” Clare pipes up, twirling one of her own plaits around her finger. The distinct impression that they’re crowding round her fleetingly catches her attention. 

“Because it’s _fashionable_ , Clare. It’s _trendy_ ,”

“My arse you’re trendy, Erin. You’ve got the taste of an eighty year old woman,”

“No, I don’t!”

“Plaiting your hair isn’t old-fashioned, Michelle,” James says, in a half-arsed attempt at defense, glancing between his cousin and Erin, with what could be determined as both a protective and bemused expression. Erin has recently garnered the opinion that James manages to appear out of his depth in a lot of situations. The only time she’s ever seen him entirely on his own ground was when he asked her to the prom.

And when he decided to leave.

She shoves away the thought of the pained look on his face, distinctly remembering the frown lines around his brow as he’d told them he was going.

She just can’t be doing with memories like that.

“You don’t catch me doing it, though, do you?”

“Your hair’s curly, Michelle!”

“Well-spotted!”

The sound of the bathroom door clicking – it’s got a deliberate creak that the whole house has learned to memorize – and lock turning makes Erin’s temper hit the roof.

“Jesus! Now I’m never gonna get my hair washed!”

“Would you actually fucking give over, Erin,” Michelle snaps.

Erin glances at the ones in front of her, lain out around her room like they’re nesting there. Orla, still refusing to clean up her mess on her bed. Clare and Michelle, splayed out on crumpled bedspreads on the floor, taking up more than twice the necessary space needed - meaning it’s a game of twister to try and actually make it to the bedroom door. And then James, sitting rather stoically on her desk chair, limbs tucked under the legs of it and blinking every once or twice.

Erin’s gut twists at his intent gaze, resting on her a millisecond longer than it used to.

God _sakes_.

Erin turns a lethal stare on Michelle, lip curling in disgust.

“Remind me again why I should hang out with you lot over Christmas.”

Michelle just shrugs.

Erin curls her lip in mental agony.

_Brilliant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually read a post on tumblr the other day that stated Jerin has got them back to being into shipping. Have to say the same is true for me. 
> 
> There's something inherently sweet about it that really tugs me in. I'm a sappy fool who loves a domestic situation in just about anything. Give me those quiet kitchen conversations so HELP ME GOD. 
> 
> But yes. Jerin!! Not ground breaking or anything, but a fascinating potentiality that I have decided to stake my entire mental health on for now. 
> 
> Lisa McGee - hurry up and make it canon when you start writing those scripts!! 
> 
> Stay tuned for more utter rubbish, folks.


	2. Pub Nights & Curfew Frights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here's chapter two. 
> 
> Really had a ball writing this chapter, simply because the ideas are fully flowing now and I can actually type the damn thing without a typo every two words. Does anybody else find it takes a while to get back to fluid typing, when you're writing, after you've not done it for a while?? I'd be interested to know. 
> 
> I really should be doing my essays, folks, but the truth of the matter is: if I don't get this down on paper, no-one will, and then what would we do? Jerin content is short and fleeting, but its slowly increasing on archive. You can bet I'm refreshing that tag every few hours! Can't wait to see what the rest of you come up with. 
> 
> Enjoy where possible.

 

“And when exactly where you planning on telling me you were going to the pub, Erin? What d’you think I am?”

Erin grimaces, snorting in a defeatist manner that is both trying to cover up her mounting panic and distract from the clear, bad decision she has made. Trying to disguise anything from her mother is like trying to stop a sniffer dog.

Ma Mary is not to be trifled with.

Kitted out in a jumper emblazoned with fluffy white clouds – maybe a little incongrous to the wintry nights currently blowing through Derry – Mary stands with her arms folded, yellow gloves pulled to her elbows, glasses around her neck. A nerve is twitching near her mouth.

Erin places fumbly hands on her hips, determined to look defiant.

Mary raises an eyebrow.

“So help me Jesus, Erin – if you think I’m letting you go the pub on your own –“

“Awk c’mon, Mammy! The five of us’ll be there, we’ll be fine!”

“I wouldn’t trust you to be _fine_ if I locked you in the house!”

Erin purses her lips, running her tongue along her teeth to remove any red lipstick stains, just as an afterthought. The whole idea surrounding mid-December drinks is simple: they’re going to be off in a few weeks, so they’d be as well having some fun to celebrate.

Ignore the fact that they should be studying for January resits. A few drinks on a Thursday night aren’t going to change the future.

“Mary, look –“

“Watch your tone, Michelle-!”

“Sorry-“ Michelle throws up a hand – “But we’ve been to a pub before. It’s five in the afternoon-“

“You mean _you’ve_ been to a pub before, Michelle,” Clare interrupts over Michelle’s shoulder, but all it earns her is an icy glare.  

Mary closes her eyes briefly, ignoring the comment.

“That’s even more of a reason not to let you’s go!”

Mary looks postively fierce, jutting her head forward to enforce her statement. Erin recoils, folding her own arms in an imitation of her mother. Though it pains her to admit it, she’s caught sight of herself in the mirror (of the many hours she spends in front of it) to instead find Ma Mary looking back at her.

Hence the red lipstick and crop tops and braided back hair. Anything not to look like her ma.

And anyway, it _suits_ her.

“How?!” Erin shrieks, throwing her own hands up in agitation. She feels Orla at her side, chin resting on her shoulder.

“There’s only gonna be some wee old fellas there, though, Aunt Mary,”

“Which is why it’s not happening!”

Gerry enters the living room at that moment, taking one look at the teenagers facing his wife, and frowns. This has become such a common occurrence in the house that he’s starting to think he should be videoing it.

You know – for proofing reasons.

“Is everything alright, love?”

“No, Gerry. No, it is not. These wains think they’re going to a pub tonight,”

“And are they not?” Gerry looks vaguely confused by the whole scenario, but it wouldn’t be the first time. He has a tendency to walk in on a conversation and only get the gist of half of it.

“No!” Mary appears to be close to a meltdown, as unlikely as that may seem in her current state.

“Mammy, please!”

“No, Erin!” Her mum whips the sud soaked scourer in her direction, making all five of them lean back. Christ but with her ma and any weapon it’s a dangerous game.

“It’s only a pub, love,”

“I don’t care if it was a youth club, Gerry, they’re not going! Sure, all sorts are out tonight!”

Gerry shakes his head in brief dismissal.

“It’s a Thursday afternoon, Mary; I doubt there’s going to be anyone out that we should be worried about,”

Mary’s glare in his direction firmly places him outside the conversation.

“I’ll just go and put the tea on,” he mutters, slinking out of the way of Mary’s wrath.

“Mammy-!”

“For the last time, Erin: no!”

Mary turns away, shooting her one final look over her shoulder before she returns to washing up, applying aforementioned verocity to the plates in the sink. Erin’s expression is livid, but it’s still not enough to warrant saying something that’ll put her in her room for the next week.

So – no pub.

Fuck’s _sake_.

 

+            +            +

 

The five of them find themselves slumping on Erin’s bed, each wearing a dejected look on their face. The light is fading fast outside, the bedroom lamps providing some weak illumination, but it’s not enough to forget that they’re running out of time.

It all feels a bit like when they couldn’t go to Take That. By God if they need another repeat of that shitfest.

Erin paces in front of them helplessly, hands on her back as she twists her nose into evermore painful looking expressions.

“Genuine question, Erin, but what the fuck’s wrong with your ma?”

Erin whips round to face her best friend, mouth a deep frown on her otherwise prettied face.

“Do you really want me to answer that question honestly, Michelle?”

A snort from Michelle is accompanied by a squeak of panic from Clare.

“Quiet Michelle! Mrs Quinn might hear you-!”

“Wise up, Clare – she’s not a fucking bat,”

“Look, girls- ” Erin raises both hands to shush them all. “You all know what she’s like! Once she’s got it in her head, there’s no budging her!” Her shoulders sag, a heavy sigh releasing as her hands drop from her hips. “We’re not going to the pub,”

Michelle raises her eyes to heaven, Orla flopping back onto the bed with as much defeat as Erin is experiencing in her stomach, writhing about with frustration and the insatiable need to wring her mother’s neck.

“Why don’t we just sneak out again?” Michelle suggests, crossing her arms and legs simultaneously, James being made to lean to his right as her limbs start invading his personal space.

“What is it with you and sneaking out? Are you trying to get yourself arrested?”

“Wise up, Erin, don’t be such a dick,”

“I’m not being a _dick_!”

“You’re being a nuisance, is what!” Michelle is practically fuming now, dark, frizzy hair making her look slightly demented. Erin would bet ten quid that it wouldn’t be a suggestion far from the truth.

James, having successfully turned himself away from Michelle’s flailing arms, turns to look up at Erin – who is still pacing in front of them like she’s waiting to get into the toilet.

“Wouldn’t your mum hear us if we did sneak out?”

He regrets having said anything as Erin turns her fury on him instead. He’d consider allowing himself to observe her rather startling and unconventional style choices if she wasn’t ready to rip his head off, just for the mere pleasure of taking her anger out on someone.

“Aye, well done, James. Brilliant work, there,”

He shrinks into himself a little, but not nearly as much as he used to. He’s used to the typical abrasiveness that comes with girls from Derry – they quite literally don’t fuck about, and certainly not when their authority is coming under judgement. If anything, he’s a little admiring of the full frontal aggression that every one of them has – it’s uncommon and endearing, unusual as the concept might be.

“And we’re not sneaking out – Mammy’d throw a fit,”

“Your mum’s going to throw a fit anyway, Erin.”

“D’you think I don’t know that?!”

Michelle just sighs again, allowing Clare to finally make her interjection. She’s been sitting on the bed with a vaguely constipated look on her face – as if she won’t be able to contain her issues with the current situation for much longer.

“Girls, have you ever considered that we’re treading a very fine line here? I mean, not to be a bit _out there_ with the suggestion, but couldn’t we, you know, just do as we’re told for once?” She looks amongst all of them, Michelle staring at her like she’s admitted to being from space.

“Have you ever considered that you shouldn’t open your mouth, Clare?” Michelle snaps, but she just shrieks in frustration.

“I’m sick of getting in trouble with my ma because of hanging out with you’s!”

“Then don’t!”

“I don’t have anybody else to hang out _with_!”

Michelle raises both eyebrows in triumph.

“That says more about you than us, then, Clare.”

Clare folds her hands in her lap, crossing her ankles as she glares at the wall in front of her.

“What’re we going to do, girls?” Erin snaps, hands finding their way back to her hips again. She’s decked out in a black velvet cami dress and white t-shirt, choker and multiple necklaces dangling down her front, the rattiest pair of platform brogues on her feet. All five of them, in fact, have dressed in accordingly classy outfits. Michelle sports a short, black dress and bright red bomber jacket, trainers to go, hoop earrings big enough to circle her thigh. Clare has donned a denim pinafore and jacket, black brogues, and a flowery print blouse that’s bringing out the rosiness of her cheeks. Orla – as ever - casual-as-you-like, in skinny track-bottoms and a striped jumper, with work boots that look suspiciously like Gerry’s. And then James, in his best slim-fit, navy sweater and dark jeans, hands shoved into the pockets of his fleece-lined jacket, the collar turned up against the pervading cold.

Erin looks between them all, heart sinking a little bit. Each of them have come all dressed up and ready to go out to have a proper night to themselves.

And as usual, her ma has pissed on it.

Something in her snaps – a sharp jab of pain in her chest as her brain tells her to wise up.

Oh, she’s way past being sensible, now.

“Right, girls,” she says, pointing her finger towards the door.

“We are going to that pub if it kills us!”

The four of them look up at her with varying degrees of horror, relief and exultation. Clare looks vaguely sick. Orla just grins. Michelle’s smirk could entice war. James sighs, shaking his head a little.

Erin just sniffs, victorious.

God help them when her ma finds out.

 

+            +            +

 

As things go, the pub isn’t half bad.

A bit dingy, really, but they weren’t really expecting much less.

It’s about half way into the night that the place fills up like a bomb shelter, people huddled into every corner of available space that the place offers. The girls end up squished into the corners of their booth, a candle shoved into the opening of an empty beer bottle and thunked down on the table, lone candle flame flickering across their faces. The pub is decked out in mahogany wood, standing since God knows when, with the leather seats having seen better days, the wood scratched and indented from years worth of initials and resistance symbolism. Michelle is currently reciting a story that's mostly swear words – something about how she lost her virginity, it sounds like – but Erin’s not really paying attention. Orla is making her way through what appears to be her second packet of fruit pastels, Clare sandwiched between James and Michelle, face contorted into one of equal pain and discomfort. Michelle is shouting in her ear, and she looks ready to hit her.

Erin just rolls her eyes, half paying attention to Michelle as she tries to ignore the firm press of James’ thigh against hers.

They’ve all been shoved into the same space, of course, so it’s inevitable. But he’s still wearing his jacket, and what with the booth being a right angle, facing the actual bar, she hasn’t really got a choice in the matter when it comes to physical contact. Every inch of her is against his side, and he’s making the best effort he can to not stab her with his elbows. She keeps forgetting how much bigger he is than her - he's always been "wee" James, so sitting beside him and remembering he's not "wee" at all is uncomfortable. 

“Jesus, I can barely move,” she huffs, but she’s not actually angry. Her dress has hitched up her leg and she’s desperate to pull it down. Trouble is, of course, she won’t be able to do that without the possibility of flashing James her knickers.

Lesser of two evils doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it.

“Do you want me to move?” he asks, with a gentler tone than she was expecting. She glares up at him, but she can’t exactly decide if she’s feeling agitated because she took her period this morning or if it’s because her crush on him is causing her to feel hot and bothered. Or if it’s her period that’s _caused_ this whole thing –

OK, right, she’s not prepared to unpack all that just yet.

“Where exactly are ye gonna move, James?”

He shrugs, and she feels his shoulder dig into her own a little as he does. Sometimes – unlikely as it might seem – she forgets that he’s actually no less of a boy than any others she’s fancied. It’s easy to dismiss him, because he’s a Derry Girl – one of them. Kin. They’ve made him one of their group, their so-called girl gang. James is something beyond some basic ride.

Which is making the whole thing harder.

Because now he’s a boy she likes that she actually _knows_. There’s a kindness to him that’s lacking in all the others – a sincerity that melds into his smile and ill-timed humour and genuine confusion at the city he’s placed himself in, for better or worse. But he’s growing up with the rest of them, and becoming something of a heartthrob amongst the other girls in the school. Forget the fact he’s English – if he keeps his mouth shut, his looks are proving to be a winner for Catholic girls abound.

Put into the bargain that he got a new haircut and that he definitely got broader shoulders over the summer, and things are going downhill faster than a nun caught drinking red wine by the bottle, never mind the communion on Sundays.

She pokes the glass on the table in front of her – a fizzy drink that might be Club Orange. She’s not entirely sure. She didn’t eat anything before she went out and is now stuck in a rut of not being able to forget her problems by the glass. James isn’t drinking either, but entirely as a life choice. Probably so that he can distance himself from Michelle’s raucous habits.

They’ve fallen into silence, Erin’s question left hanging unanswered in the air. Michelle seems to have moved on from her virginity story, but it sounds like it’s veering into the territory of her sexual preferences, regardless. Erin mimes a vomiting fit, and James lets loose a shuddering laugh, dipping his head as he does so. Orla, who is observing him with an unrealistically intense gaze, as if seeing something that’s evading the rest of them, catches Erin’s attention, a frown finding its way to her face. Knowing Orla, she’s about to spout some unspoken truth with no thinking twice, and Erin’s cringing prematurely at the thought.

Michelle seems to realize that Erin isn’t paying attention, snapping to look at her as she interrupts her own story.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you drinking anything?”

“I didn’t have anything to eat before I left!” James glances down at her with an equally detrimental frown on his face, tucking his hands into his pockets as best as he can, without knocking the wind out of her with an elbow to the stomach.

“What sort of excuse is that?!” Michelle is even harsher now that she’s had one too many vodka shots in her, and the reek of it is evident on her breath.

“A perfectly good one!”

“I hate to be the party pooper here, girls, but d’you not think we should be heading soon?” Clare has piped up from her rather squishy position between Michelle and James, expression now verging on furious.

“Would you give over, Clare?” Michelle spits a little as she says it, and James winces with visible concern.

“No I won’t, Michelle! I can barely breathe down here!”

“Stop exaggerating, you’re fine!”

“No I’m not! I’m not fine, Michelle! I’m not anywhere _near_ fine!” Clare hisses, shifting a little to sit up as straight as she can. A passer-by on Orla’s right side causes a domino effect as she leans left to avoid getting hit, allowing Clare to have an entire face-full of Michelle’s chest. Erin finds it hard to determine whether she’s planning on boking or drawing blood.

“What time is it, anyway?” Erin asks, and Clare rotates her wrist, despite the cramping, to look at her watch. She pales as her eyes read the time.

“Oh sweet JESUS,” she shrieks, causing one occupant to look around at them from the bar and shout a drunken slur that translates to something akin to ‘shift your holes’.

“What? What is it?” Erin nearly clambers across James’ lap to look at the watch herself.

“It’s half nine, what’re we gonna do?!” As always, Clare has reverted to her default setting: major-league panic.

“It’s what?!” Erin wrenches forward Clare’s wrist, hand pressing into the seat beside his thigh to stay balanced. He leans back to no avail, but Erin is able to block out the general proximity of him as creeping panic settles in her own gut. She can feel the heat off of him, the scratchy fabric of his jeans chafing against her legs. 

“Christ but my ma is gonna gut us whole,”

“We just went to the pub, Erin, it’s not a big deal-“

“Maybe not to you!” Erin cries, throwing her hands up. “She told us specifically not to leave!”

Michelle just raises her eyes to heaven – her non-verbal equivalent to not giving a shit.

“Shouldn’t we just go, then?” James interrupts, looking to Michelle for futile confirmation. She’s about as off-her-face as she can get, Michelle-wise. Nothing sensible is going to come out of her mouth for the next twenty four hours at least.

“Go where? We’re not even done yet!”

Erin adopts her signature, sarcastic frown, palms flat against the table top, causing the lone candle-flame to flicker dangerously.

“I think you’re about done, Michelle.”

Michelle glares at her, but decides against another argument.

With each bottom shuffling along the seat in a right angle formation, they shove their way past the hiving crowd that’s gathered inside, shuffling out the door, each of them grabbing hold of somebody else to ensure a full party removal from the premises.

Erin’s near sure its James’ hand that’s clasped her own, not entirely lacing their fingers together but definitely holding them tightly as he’s shoved up behind her by one of the older men in the bar. The curve of his chest up against her back is unusual, to say the least - he's gotten taller, _he's bound to have_ \- because her shoulder digs into him a little and his hand squeezes hers a little tighter as they finally emerge into the cool, night air. 

She didn’t think his hand would be so warm and firm, but there you have it.

 

+            +            +

 

“What a motherfucking night!” Michelle shouts into the blackened abyss above their heads, stars a little brighter for the lack of streetlamps in the street they’re currently descending. It’s on a slope, providing a Three Musketeer’s Approach to their party, Michelle leading out front with Clare, James and Erin behind her, Orla tagging along behind as she holds onto Erin’s cuff. She’s a little drunk, but the cuff-holding isn’t anything new.

Being sober around an incredibly drunk Michelle invites irritation at new heights.

“How’re we getting home, Erin? I don’t live anywhere near any of you’s!”

Erin looks over at Clare, whose blonde hair looks vaguely white in the darkness, altogether huffy and uncoordinated.

“It’s fine, Clare – we’re walking you home first, and then me and Orla. Michelle and James can get back themselves,”

“We’re not gonna get raped, you see,” Michelle shouts back, the words just about coherent.

Erin grimaces.

“Providing Michelle doesn’t throw up on my doorstop first,” Erin concedes as an afterthought, rearranging Orla’s grip on her sleeve as she keeps walking.

“I can’t believe we just did that!” Clare breathes out a little, hands in the front pockets of her denim pinafore.

“What? Go to a pub?” Erin asks.

Clare looks to her friend, eyebrow raising in confusion.

“No! Go out at night when we were told not to,”

“It was _my_ ma who said we couldn’t. Your ma doesn’t know, Clare – and she’s not waiting at home to bite your head off, either,”

Clare frowns a little, panic filtering into her expression for the fifth time tonight.

“Aye, I suppose that’s true enough,” she muses, but the smallest smile comes across her face, causing dimples to spring up either side of her mouth. Her lipstick is a little smudged, but the shimmery pink looks well on her. In any other world, Erin thinks she could rightly pass for a fairy. Or maybe Baby Spice. Depends what she was feeling.

“I did enjoy it, though,” she mutters, voice loud enough only for Erin to hear.

Erin smiles back at her friend, nudging her side as they walk.

“Awk, I knew you would,”

Clare’s returning smile makes the whole night light up.

They continue walking, finally making it to Clare’s door without much incident. It’s her Da who answers the door, looking only a little miffed that Clare’s back so late, but they’d at least had the sense to explain this beforehand. James’ polite address helps keeps things chilled, and they’re soon on their way to the Quinn Household.

Orla has since drifted away from Erin’s cuff, now occupying the spot beside Michelle in a battle of song, as they both set up to warbling incorrect lyrics to some Cyndi Lauper song, that suspiciously sounds like a remix of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”. James traipses by her side, taller frame making for an uncomfortable itch in her stomach.

 _Fuck’s sake_ , she thinks– she’d like one night without having to deal with this shit.

An involuntary shiver turns his blank gaze to her, concern etching itself in the space between his eyebrows. In this light, it’s hard to make out his exact features – only that his eyes are keeping an intent gaze on her face, keeping in step with her as he noses the inside of his fleecey collar. The warmth is undeniable, but he’s not entirely sure it’s all the jacket’s fault.

Erin sniffs beside him, and when he looks at her again, passing under the latest streetlamp to dot the street, her blonde hair comes up white, her orange-y lipstick lingering only on the outline of her mouth. The rim of her glass from the pub held the majority of it, and he distinctly remembers glancing to her mouth when he noticed that particular detail.

“Are you cold?” he asks blithely, not really intending to have her answer. She seems a little lost in her own world beside him, arms folded and hands tucked under her armpits, trying to conserve what little heat she has left.

“Should’ve brought a different jacket,” she says, not entirely without regret. It had matched her outfit better, but she’s suffered for fashion before and the result has never been much different.

“Do you want mine?” When she looks up at him, he shrugs his shoulders, extending his hands outwards whilst they still linger in his pockets.

“Just a suggestion,”

“Aye, a stupid one, you mean.”

“You said you were cold –”

“No point in us both being cold, though, James. What’re you like?”

He sighs into the night, looking back out at the street. They’re rounding the corner to start making it up the hill towards Erin’s, and all he can really think is that he wouldn’t mind if all of this could last just that bit longer. The night is cool on his skin, the world holding its breath as it sleeps, only the faintest groan of a car in the distance reminding them that they’re not alone. Each streetlamp pools orange light onto the pavement, houses from another century lining each side, despite the faint glow of a TV screen passing through the curtains in some of the windows. It’s a city disinterested in them, for once, and he kind of likes it.

Erin looks back up at him, switching her gaze between his profile and the figures of Michelle and Orla in front of them, now onto some Take That, although they’ve definitely changed some words there as well. The whole town’s going to end up thinking they’re half mental, and they wouldn’t be half wrong.

A heavy weight falls around her shoulders, and she looks down to find James’ jacket draped around her shoulders, engulfing her form in fleece and heat, his aftershave lingering in the lining. It’s been pressed up against his pulse and the faint musk is enough to scatter her heartbeat into a frenzy.

“What’re you playing at? Sure, you’ll be freezing,”

“I’m alright, seriously,”

Erin frowns at him.

The sincerity in his gaze would suggest he actually is, but she’s not thick – she can see the cold already setting into him, the navy jumper not enough to disguise how he’s hunched into himself already.

“You’re mental, d’you know that?” Her smile is a little softer than she was intending, but the weight of the jacket on her shoulders makes her feel a wee bit looked after – kind of in a way she’s never had before.

He just laughs, shaking his head as they continue up the hill.

“Michelle makes a point of it a lot,”

“Aye, and she’s right to,” Erin says, but she just glances up at him again as she pulls the jacket a little closer around her, pushing on forward. They reach her house about ten minutes later, Erin’s stomach writhing with dread at the prospect of her mother’s fury. God help her, she’ll already have sorted out that plot in the garden for her. Maybe even Orla as well.

Michelle leans against the doorframe both for support and a fake attempt at nonchalance, James surprisingly small beside her as he resides on the lower step, height difference aside. Erin slides the jacket from her shoulders, a tug in her chest making her frown a little as she hands over his jacket.

“Thanks for the jacket,” she says, and he takes it gratefully, huddling up into again as he scratches the back of his neck.

“No bother,” he murmurs, tone quiet. A fox screeches in the distance, making all four turn to look. Orla hangs out the doorway as if planning to go after it.

“Right, well – we’ll see you’s later, yeah?”

Both nod in agreement.

Michelle thumps down the steps, James muttering a strained “careful, Michelle” as he turns to look over his shoulder at them both, still standing on the doorstep.

“Night, then,” he says, dipping his head in goodbye.

He’s after Michelle in an instant, letting her hold onto his arm as they walk on. Erin stares after him, the cold biting into her skin.

“Is that them gone?” Orla asks, leaning against her shoulder.

Erin just frowns again, brushing back a stray hair from her face as she pulls out the clip at the back of her head. Her hair falls around her face, imitating a lion’s mane as she feels her stomach turn over with hunger and something else.

“Yeah,”

She sighs.

“C’mon, Orla, let’s get inside.”

They duck in and close the door behind them, not there to see James paused in the street, looking back as the door closes, Michelle hanging off his arm with reckless abandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for the wonderful response this fic has gained so far! It's beyond wonderful to know that this wee show has touched hearts beyond its homeground. It's a special thing, to be sure.
> 
> I've been reading some fab stuff on archive, so be sure I'll be taking inspiration! It's really great stuff and it's allowing my plan for this thing to flourish, what with all the tropes and stuff. 
> 
> Eyes peeled for the next chapter. It'll be up as quick as possible.


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